


No longer does it matter what circumstances we were born in

by chimesDissent



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimesDissent/pseuds/chimesDissent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that don't need to be said out loud, but there are a lot of things to think about.  Your relationship with Karkat Vantas is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No longer does it matter what circumstances we were born in

When you open the door you spy Karkat nestled on the couch.

He’s wrapped in a tangle of blankets—old quilts given to Dad by caring grandmothers down the street to keep you warm during those harsher Washington winter months, fleeces stylized with bright green slime ghosts and yellow moons, stars, and magic wands.

The comforter isn’t there though—the one you peeled off your Dad’s bed when it was time to break down and redecorate his room to fit your growing needs. Really, you should have been wiser to the fact that you couldn’t keep his room as a shrine forever.

Karkat’s a tangled mess and he’s usually like this when he wants to wrap himself in a movie entirely.

You glance at the case on the floor. You can’t read the title, but you can remember sitting with Karkat through this one a few weeks ago. You had lost track of the story after the third quadrant flip and decided that the last hour of the movie could be better spent with you pressing your ear against Karkat’s side.

He was too engrossed to pay any mind and there’s something weirdly fascinating about listening to those odd digestion noises rumbling away. You couldn't be bothered to learn those funny troll names for organs, so you just settled for troll-stomach and troll-large intestines while wondering if that’s the popcorn you heard shift around or the meatloaf.

Karkat’s buried deep and you can only see the little tips of his fingers, as he holds the edges of the blankets together, and his face, though it’s lopped against one side of the blankets wrapped around his head.

If you look closely enough, you can see the slight outline of his nubby horns. Though they look small and quite adorable, if you do say so yourself, you know how painful those things can be. They’re not sharp, but they’re blunt enough to leave welts and bruises that spread like deep purple wildflowers against your skin.

You’ve been able to hide the few you’ve ever received from your coworkers and acquaintances pretty well. Because really, how do you explain that the troll who lives with you sometimes has night-terrors and can’t control himself when his horn aims straight for your collarbone, or that sometimes the same troll really doesn’t like it when you tickle the funny little spaces where his grub legs grew back into his skin and he knows how to violently inform you?

If anyone besides your friends see the bruises, you smile and dodge the inquiries with all the grace a professional part-time idiot can manage. That’s what Karkat’s been fond of calling you these days because he’s constantly torn between drowning himself in the bathtub when you think it’s hilarious to play impromptu drums on an overturned bucket, or praising your ability to manage and befriend a group of 56 awkward 13 year olds, who would rather stress over body issues or home troubles or interpersonal complications than worry about the fascinating complexities of mathematical equations.

Some days, when you can tell that learning just isn’t going to happen, you have your students push their desks against the walls and you pull out a big plush rug that Rose bought you a week before you were hired. Apparently she was much more confident in your skills than you were and you’ve learned to never really doubt her judgement on simple matters like this. You sit your classes down on the rug and you let them talk while listening and occasional halting anything negative other kids might say.

You know the importance of talking with your peers—you were 13 once and the only other 13 years olds in the world were your closest companions and confidants. When your students are done and their fears aired, and with any hope, minimized or dissolved, you roll up the rug, move back the desks, and try to finish what you can.

There’s always tomorrow to play catch up, you made sure of that.

Carefully you set down your bags and unload the stack of papers you need to grade and you settle yourself beside Karkat. Your movements wake him, but he’s no longer as quick to jump out of his skin to wake up.

He sighs and emerges just a little bit from his fortress of warmth and plush, and you think you fall in love with him that much more. You smile at him and he merely closes his eyes in return.

You pick up your papers and your blue pen and he grabs the remote and restarts the movie and you both press against each others’ sides and content yourselves with another normal night.

**Author's Note:**

> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4dtodbhNys


End file.
